Phase change
by West of Bucharest
Summary: Stockholm, in the middle of winter. It's slushy outside, still cold enough to keep snow but the sun shining makes it melt on asphalt and porches and rooftop and the water reflects the light off, and the city practically sparkles in the morning, moving with the people. A SuFin I wrote for a dear friend of mine, purely sap.


Finland thinks he likes that very much, the qualities of the cold, as he sits on a chair on the balcony of Sweden's apartment, the coffee in his hands warming his fingertips and the too-long pajama bottoms curled under his toes. He watches a few early birds flutter by and steady drops of water from a few icicles over his head. Despite living in quite the cold country himself, the air here is different from Helsinki, or Turku—he can practically hear Berwald slip up and say 'Åbo' and that makes Finland smile against the rim of the coffee cup—in a good way.

Once, Finland stopped to ponder on this and thought, it was history. How the city had stood through decades, centuries, and bears rustic scars underneath the metropolis from skirmishes, but then he thought, _isn't that how it is for my own as well?_and settled that thought for a while. Now, Finland leans back into the chair and takes a small sip from his mug, tucking his knees to his chest, and thinks again. Maybe because he's bored and it's early and can't stand having unresolved inner thoughts.

It could also be because it's so familiar to him; living here in the past, seeing it grow, and in the here and now, watching it bustle. As a nation Finland has always loved to see the villages grow into towns and towns into cities and loves seeing the people move about. His people or not, the fact that so much has changed within him and his fellow nations over time makes a warm sense of pride rise up his spine.

And maybe it is all of that combined, the pride and the familiarity, with the feeling that he has now whenever Sweden pokes his head out the sliding door, looking side to side before spotting Finland with a raised eyebrow and steps from the kitchen and outside, sliding the door shut. Finland thinks Sweden looks very nice, not too overdone but with his collar pressed and his pants belted and his glasses still somewhat fogged from where they were left on the counter during his shower.

"It's cold out this early," Sweden notes, looking at Finland's bare feet and rosy nose.

"Yes, but it's also nice out like this. Sit with me for a bit," Finland beams at the Swede and he shuffles over a bit to make more room for the lumbering man. Whenever Sweden gets situated, Finland leans over to press a kiss to his cheek, still damp from aftershave against his lips. "I woke up a bit early so I didn't get to tell you good morning, but I did leave some coffee in the pot for you for before you leave."

"That's fine, thanks," Sweden nods and sits up straighter, upper arm against Finland's shoulder but he places his palm against a smaller, colder one and the metal of Sweden's watch presses against and chills the skin of Finland's forearm; Finland doesn't care, though, because that warm feeling tingles his nerves once more and he squeezes Sweden's fingers lightly.

"I like your city, Berwald, when the sun's shining like this and it's cold. It feels a bit like my home—well, the one I was raised in," Finland adds with a laugh, "but I think that's what makes it unique, too. Like a sort of second home I have. Does that make sense?" he asks and turns to face the Swede, who's once more quirked his eyebrow but the corners of his lips turning up betray any sort of underlying confusion.

"Makes sense to me. After all, that's what it _should_ feel like, I'd think," Sweden replies, patting Finland's hand twice. Finland closes his eyes whenever Sweden answers with that understanding in his voice, and it does make sense. Though, maybe, in a sort of way that is befitting of Finland's feelings—the feeling of familiarity in the city and the fascination and the nice feeling stirring inside him, it's all paralleled by the man beside him, the man of this city, Sweden, who _is_ this city, with scars visible and long buried and still standing through the trials of time. What's more, Sweden's standing beside _him_, even through those trials that affected him and the both of them together.

Finland stays leaning against Sweden's shoulder for a few moments more, taking an occassional sip of coffee in the muted metropolitan noise until Sweden turns his wrist inward to check his watch.

When he stands up, Sweden leans down once more to press a kiss to the space above and between Finland's eyebrows. "Need anything before I get back?"

"Ah, a small bit of fish, since we're close to running out, maybe some stock. And I wouldn't mind something sweet? Chewy as a bonus?" Finland grins toothily and Sweden's eyes cast upward, smiling nonetheless before standing full-height once more and heading back inside to slip on his shoes and shoo Hanatamago into the kitchen before leaving—Finland knows.

Whenever he hears the skittering of small paws across the tile, Finland smiles across the cityscape and the water of Stockholm, toes curling against the metal of the chair and thinks of this familiarity, of the cold air and of the stretch of water, across to his home and back to his home away from home, where Sweden comes home with one arm full of groceries and the other open to hug Finland in greeting, even if the smaller one chastises him for it, and Finland will call him Berseni—even if it sounds a bit clunky—and the warmth will continue on through even the chilliest of days spent here.

Post-notes: To my understanding, adding a '—seni' to a name in Finnish makes it a sort of nickname to mean 'My _', but doesn't Berwaldseni sound really awkward? So I shortened it a bit, because I also believe that Fin calls Sweden 'Ber'. I feel really awkward writing Sweden's little speech quirk in writing, but I hope you all enjoyed it nonetheless—thank you.


End file.
